The Mafia Boss’s Baby Had Been Crying for Hours—Then He Saw Me, Reached Out His Tiny Arms, and His Father Went Pale at My Name Tag / Chapter 6 / 100

Chapter 6 - Dancing with the Enemy

The mirror in the grand suite of the Pine Street estate reflected a stranger.

The dress was a custom creation of midnight-emerald velvet, cut so low in the back it exposed the delicate curve of my spine, while hugging every contour of my hips down to the floor. A slit ran up the left thigh, revealing diamond-encrusted Christian Louboutin heels that added three inches to my height.

My dark hair was swept up into an intricate, effortless chignon, with soft tendrils framing my face. Around my neck hung my mother's silver Falcone pendant, but it was now flanked by a four-carat emerald solitaire ring on my left hand that burned like green fire under the chandelier lights.

The door behind me swung open.

Luca stood in the frame, wearing a bespoke black tuxedo with satin lapels, looking every bit like the dark king of the underworld. His tie was straight, his cufflinks were mother-of-pearl, and his aura screamed absolute power.

He stopped dead in his tracks.

For three long seconds, the man who controlled half the East Coast forgot how to speak. His eyes traveled slowly from the tips of my heels, up the line of my bare leg, across the curve of my waist, finally locking onto my exposed collarbone and throat.

A dark, possessive hunger flared in his gaze—raw, primal, and impossible to fake.

"You look..." He swallowed hard, stepping into the room, his footsteps silent on the rug. "...breathtaking."

"I feel like an imposter," I admitted, my voice trembling slightly as I smoothed the velvet over my hips.

"You're not an imposter," Luca said, stopping right behind me. He placed his large hands on my bare shoulders. His palms were warm, sending a shiver cascading down my spine. He met my eyes in the mirror. "You carry Falcone blood, Avery. You were born to rule a room full of jackals. Tonight, you don't look down. You don't apologize. If anyone looks at you sideways, you look through them as if they are already six feet under the dirt."

"And Dante?"

"Dante will try to provoke you," Luca murmured, his thumbs gently tracing the line of my collarbone. "He will smile, he will kiss your hand, and he will look for any crack in the armor to prove you are just a prop I hired to keep his nephew. Do not let him see you sweat."

"I won't," I whispered, leaning back slightly against his chest, surprised by how natural his strength felt behind me.

Luca’s breath hitched against my ear. His lips brushed the skin just beneath my earlobe—a touch so light, so electric, that my breath caught in my throat.

"Good girl," he growled softly. "Let's go show this city who owns it."

The Union League of Philadelphia was a monument to old money and older sins.

The grand ballroom smelled of hundred-dollar cigars, white lilies, and vintage champagne. Crystal chandeliers the size of small cars illuminated hundreds of men in black tie and women dripping in diamonds. But the moment Luca Moretti walked through the arched double doors with my hand tucked firmly into the crook of his arm, the orchestra’s waltz seemed to lose its rhythm.

A ripple of hushed whispers spread across the sea of tuxedos.

*“Is that Moretti?”*

*“Who is she?”*

*“Where did he find her?”*

*“Look at her neck—is that the Falcone crest?”*

Luca ignored them all, walking with the leisurely, terrifying confidence of a panther pacing through a herd of sheep. He kept his hand firmly over mine, pulling me close against his side so our hips brushed with every step.

"Relax your jaw," Luca murmured under his breath, smiling for the photographers whose flashes illuminated the red carpet. "You're supposed to be in love with me."

"I'm trying, but your ego is blocking the light," I whispered back through a dazzling, practiced smile.

A genuine laugh rumbled in his chest, low and rich, drawing even more eyes.

Then, the crowd parted.

A man was walking toward us, flanked by four hulking guards whose jackets bulged conspicuously at the ribs.

He was in his late forties, slicked-back silver hair, a cruel, aristocratic nose, and cold blue eyes that lacked any trace of warmth. He wore a white tuxedo jacket with a crimson pocket square that looked like a splash of fresh blood.

Dante Vanezzy.

"Luca," Dante purred, his voice dripping with venomous familiarity. "I didn't think you’d have the stomach to attend tonight. Not after the... tragic disruptions at your home last evening."

"Dante," Luca replied, his voice completely level, devoid of any tension. "My home is fine. My exterminator took care of two rats in the garden. Cleaned up without a mess."

Dante’s smile tightened, the mask slipping for a millisecond before his cold eyes slid over to me.

He stopped. His gaze locked onto my face, then dropped to the silver pendant resting against the emerald velvet of my gown.

A flash of genuine shock—and something akin to fear—rippled across Dante’s aristocratic features.

"My God," Dante breathed, taking half a step forward. "Elena?"

"This is Avery," Luca said, his voice dropping into a lethal, territorial growl as he slid an arm around my waist, pulling me flush against his side. "My fiancée."

Dante recovered quickly, though his eyes remained dilated with disbelief. "Fiancée? How delightfully sudden, Luca. Elena hasn't been in the ground four months, and you've already found a replacement who wears her family’s crest?"

Dante reached out, taking my right hand before I could pull away. He bowed, pressing his thin, cold lips to my knuckles. His skin felt like a reptile’s.

"A pleasure, Miss Campbell," Dante whispered, looking up at me through his lashes. "Or should I say, cousin? I assume Luca told you about your tragic lineage?"

"He told me everything, Mr. Vanezzy," I said, my voice ringing clear and steady over the murmur of the ballroom. I didn't pull my hand back; instead, I squeezed his fingers with surprising firmness, meeting his gaze with unblinking defiance. "He also told me how desperate you are to get your hands on my nephew's trust fund."

A collective gasp echoed from the circle of mobsters standing within earshot.

Dante’s smile vanished completely. The air turned venomous.

"Careful, little bird," Dante sneered, his grip on my hand tightening until the bones ground together. "Cages have doors. Accidents happen to pretty girls who fly too high."

Before I could reply, Luca moved.

In a blur of motion, Luca’s hand clamped around Dante’s wrist like an iron vise. The sickening sound of tendons straining made Dante gasp in sudden agony. Luca twisted Dante’s arm downward, forcing the older boss half an inch toward the floor, leaning in until their noses were practically touching.

"Threaten my wife again," Luca whispered, the words so soft and deadly they froze the blood in my veins, "and I will tear your throat out with my bare teeth in front of the Mayor, the Governor, and the God you pray to. Do you understand me, Dante?"

Dante’s face turned white with rage and pain. "You're dead, Moretti. Both of you."

Luca shoved Dante back into his bodyguards, who scrambled to catch their boss.

Without another word, Luca turned to me, wrapping his arm around my waist, his touch instantly gentle, as if he hadn't just threatened to murder a syndicate boss in a public ballroom.